from over Carlos'
shoulder.
Carlos glanced back at him and said
sarcastically, "No shit Sherlock," then stood up and pulled her up
to stand beside him.
"Carlos, don't be like that...Beau saved my
life," she told him angrily.
"I did my job, that's all...now ya'll go
inside," Beau said without an ounce of emotion in his voice. He was
cold, and the sparkle that was usually in his eyes was missing,
they were flat and hard, just like his words had been.
Beau had just basically told her that saving
her had nothing to do with him caring about her. She meant nothing
more to him than another victim, another statistic, or any stranger
who might have been in the same situation. Once that fact settled
into her brain, the gratitude and awe over what he'd done turned to
ashes inside of her. Well, at least she knew where she stood with
him.
With one last glance at Beau, Jazzie grabbed
Carlos's arm and pulled him toward the house. The door was open and
one of Dave Logan's men was standing guard there. She had no idea
where the man had been during the gunfight...that would have a been
a prime opportunity for him to guard them. When they walked inside,
she saw Chase had Dave Logan cornered over by the stairs and he was
reading him the riot act over something. Both men's faces were very
red and their shoulders tense.
Her mom was laying down on the couch with a
wet rag on her forehead. Carlos pulled away from her and walked
over there to sit on the sofa beside her and hold her hand. She
looked over to Jasmine and her eyes widened and tears filled them,
then she tried to sit up as she wailed, "Oh, Jasmine, thank God,
you aren't hurt!"
Carlos pushed her shoulders back on the
couch and admonished, "Lay still mama--papa will be here in a few
minutes."
Jazzie had to find a quiet spot where she
could think and fall apart. The few tears she'd shed since the
incident happened hadn't done a damned thing to relieve the
intensity of the pressure inside her chest, which felt like steam
in a pipe looking for a let off valve.
Her childhood bedroom, her sanctuary for so
many years, called to her and she staggered to the stairs and then
hurtled up them two at a time as the pressure built with every
step. She had barely closed the door and leaned back against it,
before a wailing moan started at her feet and shot upward then
escaped. She hugged herself then stumbled to the double bed and
fell across it and buried her head in her arms, letting go of all
the fear, adrenaline and anger that was ripping her apart
inside.
Jazzie cried over giving her virginity to
the wrong man, caring about the wrong man, about not being able to
love one who could love her back, about the situation her brother
had gotten them all into, and finally about watching the man she
couldn't help but have feelings for almost get killed...for
her.
Buckets of tears poured from her body,
easing some of the pressure, but not all of it. Crying made her
feel worse in some ways though. By the time her tears abated some,
her throat was sore and her head clogged up, and she felt like her
soul was being wrung out by hand.
Jazzie sucked in a shuddering breath and sat
up on the bed. She needed her violin, her music was her comfort,
her release, it always had been, but her instrument was with Jess
and the band in Tahiti. All she had was her three-quarter violin
she'd had when she was a teenager, stuffed in the back of her
closet. She'd kept it for the memories, and to remind her of her
journey to where she was now in her art.
It was the violin she'd played for the
Julliard audition, the one that had gotten her the scholarship she
didn't accept. It was battered and scarred, like she was right now,
but it had been her friend for a long time, and she needed it now.
Taking a sharp breath, Jazzie pushed up off the bed and went to her
closet, then dug around in all the boxes that were stacked high on
the floor, until she found the scuffed up black
shoulder.
Carlos glanced back at him and said
sarcastically, "No shit Sherlock," then stood up and pulled her up
to stand beside him.
"Carlos, don't be like that...Beau saved my
life," she told him angrily.
"I did my job, that's all...now ya'll go
inside," Beau said without an ounce of emotion in his voice. He was
cold, and the sparkle that was usually in his eyes was missing,
they were flat and hard, just like his words had been.
Beau had just basically told her that saving
her had nothing to do with him caring about her. She meant nothing
more to him than another victim, another statistic, or any stranger
who might have been in the same situation. Once that fact settled
into her brain, the gratitude and awe over what he'd done turned to
ashes inside of her. Well, at least she knew where she stood with
him.
With one last glance at Beau, Jazzie grabbed
Carlos's arm and pulled him toward the house. The door was open and
one of Dave Logan's men was standing guard there. She had no idea
where the man had been during the gunfight...that would have a been
a prime opportunity for him to guard them. When they walked inside,
she saw Chase had Dave Logan cornered over by the stairs and he was
reading him the riot act over something. Both men's faces were very
red and their shoulders tense.
Her mom was laying down on the couch with a
wet rag on her forehead. Carlos pulled away from her and walked
over there to sit on the sofa beside her and hold her hand. She
looked over to Jasmine and her eyes widened and tears filled them,
then she tried to sit up as she wailed, "Oh, Jasmine, thank God,
you aren't hurt!"
Carlos pushed her shoulders back on the
couch and admonished, "Lay still mama--papa will be here in a few
minutes."
Jazzie had to find a quiet spot where she
could think and fall apart. The few tears she'd shed since the
incident happened hadn't done a damned thing to relieve the
intensity of the pressure inside her chest, which felt like steam
in a pipe looking for a let off valve.
Her childhood bedroom, her sanctuary for so
many years, called to her and she staggered to the stairs and then
hurtled up them two at a time as the pressure built with every
step. She had barely closed the door and leaned back against it,
before a wailing moan started at her feet and shot upward then
escaped. She hugged herself then stumbled to the double bed and
fell across it and buried her head in her arms, letting go of all
the fear, adrenaline and anger that was ripping her apart
inside.
Jazzie cried over giving her virginity to
the wrong man, caring about the wrong man, about not being able to
love one who could love her back, about the situation her brother
had gotten them all into, and finally about watching the man she
couldn't help but have feelings for almost get killed...for
her.
Buckets of tears poured from her body,
easing some of the pressure, but not all of it. Crying made her
feel worse in some ways though. By the time her tears abated some,
her throat was sore and her head clogged up, and she felt like her
soul was being wrung out by hand.
Jazzie sucked in a shuddering breath and sat
up on the bed. She needed her violin, her music was her comfort,
her release, it always had been, but her instrument was with Jess
and the band in Tahiti. All she had was her three-quarter violin
she'd had when she was a teenager, stuffed in the back of her
closet. She'd kept it for the memories, and to remind her of her
journey to where she was now in her art.
It was the violin she'd played for the
Julliard audition, the one that had gotten her the scholarship she
didn't accept. It was battered and scarred, like she was right now,
but it had been her friend for a long time, and she needed it now.
Taking a sharp breath, Jazzie pushed up off the bed and went to her
closet, then dug around in all the boxes that were stacked high on
the floor, until she found the scuffed up black
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